Last Man Standing: The Pokemon Files
by WetWired
Summary: In a world of Pokemon, there are thieves, smugglers, and cutthroats of every description. They have only one fear. One man who will use his Pokemon to hunt them down and bring justice to the world…if the price is right.
1. PROLOGUE

Hello, everyone. This is my first fic. . .so try not to laugh too hard. And don't forget to review.  
  
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Pokemon. Though it would be nice, since I could really use the cash.  
  
PROLOGUE  
  
Rain dripped down from the raven sky. It slowed him down; his boots were caked with mud. Sweat poured freely from his face and arms, with the heavy bag he carried. But no rainstorm, even if it came from Lugia itself, would slow him down. No. He wouldn't let it. Abruptly, he found himself tripping over a branch, he tumbled to the ground, rolling head over heels into a ditch. Mud sprayed everywhere. A family of Sentret squealed in alarm at the intrusion of their shelter and scattered.  
The man picked his bag up from the ground, cursing his clumsiness. He had to get away. He was good at this. How pleased the boss would be! How clever he was to pick a raid like this! Forty-eight Pokemon! He'd beaten the gang record for most Pokemon stolen in a single mission. This would earn him a promotion, he thought as he ran through the forest at top speed. Above him, lightning speared through the air, briefly igniting the forest with light.  
And then he saw him.  
Standing at full six-foot-three, a thin wiry figure blocking the thief's way. Pokeball clutched in hand. Throwing it lightly in his left hand as if anticipating the thief's next move. The right hand's index finger was wagging back and forth as if to say "naughty, naughty."  
The thief found his breath cut off. He panicked, but managed to squeak out "g-get out my way."  
"Make me," the figure replied grimly.  
The thief stuttered. "Oh, oh, you think you can mess with me? I'm damn good at what I do."  
"So I hear. That's why they hired me."  
"Hired. . .you?" Who on earth would hire this man to hunt a Pokemon thief down?  
The figure in front of him nodded very slowly. "Oh, yes. Quite a generous sum in fact. Right out of Mr. Ketchum's own account from the Indigo Corp. Think I'll buy a yacht with it."  
Ketchum? Indigo Corp? The thief's eyes widened in realization. His jaw dropped. The Pokemon League had put a sort of bounty on him!  
"Whatever they're paying you, I swear my boss can double it!" Pleading. Bargaining.  
The shadow man shook his had sadly. "Tempting yes. . .but y'know? They paid me to do the job. And if you check my record. . .you'll see I have a 100 percent satisfaction record."  
  
The thief was sick of this. "You asked for it!" Quick to the draw, he slapped his hand to his belt and threw his Pokeball into the air. It landed in the mud with a sickening splat, then split in half and a pure white light emerged from it. It took on the form of a Tauros, which promptly charged to the man without command. At 40 miles per hour it raced, ready to crush the man's bones into a fine powder.  
The shadow man, whoever he was, reacted instantly. A burst of ashen light materialized before him, and a figure blocked the Tauros' path. Tauros skidded to a halt and mooed curiously. It stood nearly seven feet tall, and was supported by dozens of serpentine legs.  
No, the thief realized. Not legs. It was a Tentacruel.  
"I warn you!" the thief boomed, but not with confidence. "Don't mess with me! I'm good!"  
"You," came frank reply, "are no challenge. Your poorly-trained Pokemon brings bile to my throat. You are nothing more than a common sneak- thief, groveling to your boss, pilfering that which you cannot have. You are a failure, from a gang of failures. And now you must compensate for your actions."  
  
"Tauros, run him down!" the thief bellowed, to angry and frustrated now to care what happened.  
Tauros howled in rage and flew at Tentacruel, rage in his eyes, ready to spear the overgrown jellyfish with the points of his horns. Closer. . .closer. . . Instantly, Tentacruel's sharp proboscis, a blade filled with poison, shot up. The stomach of Tentacruel grew white, illuminating the forest. The light gathered into a circle, and when enough energy had been stored, the light formed a meter-wide shaft of light. Ice Beam. Which hit Tauros. Right between the eyes.  
Tauros cried out in disbelief and fell to the ground. He couldn't think straight, blinded by the frost now covering his face. He thrashed on the forest ground, as if it would somehow alleviate the intense agony in his body. Tentacruel and his trainer observed this without sympathy.  
The thief stuttered in horror. "B-but you can't-"  
"Oh, but I just did," came the reply. "Hands up, now."  
The thief answered with the only gamble he could think of. He ran. Dropping the bag, leaving his wounded Tauros. He didn't get very far at all. Tentacruel's arms snaked their way over 20 feet to wrap themselves around the thief's legs.  
With a cry, he fell to the ground again, his face landing in the mud. He was dragged back to the trainer, paralyzed with fear. Wrapped helplessly by the myriad of Tentacruel's arms, he found himself face to face into Tentacruel's cold, glaring eyes. The hook of poison was only centimeters from his lips. He could feel Tentacruel's hot breath on his face, and gulped weakly.  
"Please- " he whispered, his voice squeaking in hopelessness, "please don't kill me. . ."  
The shadow man grabbed the thief's hair and hoisted him to his feet. "Shut up. Stop simpering like a little baby. I'm not gonna kill you." The man took the thief's wrist and wrapped a cold metal device around it.  
It took ten seconds before the thief realized they were handcuffs.  
The shadow man spoke. "Peter Reed, for crimes against the Pokemon League and by the authority invested in me by of the Indigo Corp., I am placing you under arrest."  
Peter finally found is voice. "Who-who are you?" he asked.  
The shadow man responded by taking out a flashlight and shining it on a badge.  
Next to a picture of a young man, in bold, red letters, it read:  
  
"Trent Williams: Investigator of Pokemon Crimes."  
  
CASE #0001  
  
DATE: November 16, 2022.  
  
Trent Williams made his way into the Indigo Plateau Offices shaking off the Monday morning rain that had gathered on his coat. Throwing his cigarette into the ashtray, he combed his hand through his brown hair to remove any water. All around him, an incessant swarm of trainers and Pokemon alike made their way through the buildings. Each trainer was registering for the semiannual challenges that took place here in Kanto League.  
  
He watched as three young men carried a Primeape over their soldiers and cheering, obviously having just won a crucial match. A young girl sat on bench, combing out her Jynx's hair for the beauty contest. He heard the awed whispers of young trainers who had just arrived, seeing the splendor of the Indigo Coliseum for the first time.  
  
He remembered times like that. Good memories. Good friends. But that was the past, he reminded himself sadly. And no amount of remembering was ever going to bring back happiness. . .it seemed like a century ago.  
  
Trent was a Pokemon Agent of the Indigo League. He was put in charge of the Investigation of Pokemon Crimes Unit. He hunted down burglars, poachers, even Pokemon murderers. Ash Ketchum, president of the League, often sent his lackeys and bootlickers to him, asking if he'd please investigate this, or see to that. Whatever. It was usually the same. Human scum who brutally hurt or killed innocent Pokemon. . .and sometimes it was the Pokemon who were the criminals. A pity. It was a tough business, but he was a tough man. It wasn't pretty, and often dangerous, but Trent had gotten used to it.  
  
He had learned long ago that it was a cruel world.  
  
As a Pokemon investigator, he was allowed to carry twelve Pokemon with him, twice the number of a trainer. But that was the catch. A Pokemon investigator was ineligible to compete in any contests. It didn't matter a hill of beans to him. He'd given up his dream of becoming a Pokemon Master.  
  
He entered his office, took off his coat, ready to begin the week anew. The rain pattered softly on his window. Outside, some fanatical trainers were in the rain, still training in the parking lot. Two trainers, a male and female no more than fifteen years old, had finished battling, their clothes soaked. They laughed and hugged each other, obviously in love. His eyes darted to the picture on his desk. "That used to be us," he said. "Could have been us." The picture of the woman who was his wife--no, he reminded himself, who would have been his wife--did not respond. He didn't expect it to.  
  
Enough, he thought bitterly. She wasn't coming back.  
  
Time for business. He was to file a case report on the capture of Peter Reed and present it to Mr. Ketchum by noon today. He turned on his computer, which greeted him in its typical voice. "Good morning Trent," said a thick metallic voice. "How may I serve you today?" "Good morning, Porygon. Run word processing, filename. . ." His intercom buzzed, interrupting his command. He turned it on. "Williams," he said nonchalantly. "Trent," said a hauntingly familiar voice said. "I need to see you. Now."  
  
Making his way past the Hitmonlee security guards, Trent adjusted his tie and knocked on the door marked ASH KETCHUM, CEO. "Come in." Trent entered the office of the man who had accomplished so much in his life. In his office, a case of over 30 gym badges was proudly displayed. Certificates dotted the walls like flies, signed by the Elite Four and numerous Gym Leaders.  
  
I could have done the same, he thought. If everything hadn't gone to hell.  
  
Ketchum's dark eyes stared at the folder he was carrying, and giving a look that was the equivalent of staring at Muk droppings. "Trent," he said a subdued voice. "Please. . .sit down." Trent sat in the chair in front of the desk and watched Ketchum struggle to find words.  
He knew what was coming. A thief. A murderer. You couldn't find worse scum under a Snorlax's backside. But he was not prepared for what Ketchum handed to him.  
The photo was taken in the back of an armored truck. The soldier inside looked as if he'd been through a meat processing plant. His head had been neatly lopped off, and various slashes had been made into the torso, staining the olive military suit with crimson blood. Trent recognized the badges on the uniform.  
"That's Colonel Frederick Penn? The 'Nam hero?" he asked.  
Ketchum nodded grimly. "He and his Houndour were killed in the back of an armored truck. He was en route to Azure Military Base near Cerulean City, traveling in the back to guard the weaponry. He and his Houndour was the only person to enter or leave it."  
"The driver?"  
"He was ruled innocent. Trent, these slashes are too perfect for a human to have done. And no man could kill a Houndour so easily. We suspect Pokemon trickery was used. What we can't figure out. . .is who would have a grudge against him. He's an international hero. Loved by all." The Pokemon Master shook his head. "I've seen a lot of terrible acts in my time. . .but this. Senseless. Absolutely senseless." Trent was unfazed. Ten years ago, he would felt the same as Mr. Ketchum did, with compassion for the dead man.  
  
Nowadays he didn't really feel any emotion. Certainly not compassion.  
  
Ketchum managed to find his voice and reached into his desk. "Trent, I've booked you on a flight at 3 PM today. You will meet a man at the airport who'll take you to the base. "You must find this killer. I'm counting on you. " Trent slipped the file under his arm, took the ticket, and prepared to exit the room. And smiled. "Sir. . .with my experience, I'll be back in time for lunch tomorrow."  
  
TO BE CONTINUED. . . . 


	2. Shadows

Hey, I could really use more reviews here. And thanks, AAMF, I haven't made that decision but. . . well, read for yourself.  
  
SHADOWS (PART 2)  
  
Darkness. The cry of the Noctowl echoed through the forest. Oddish danced about, spreading their spores around for posterity. Night. The time when a man realizes just how weak he truly is. After so much time in the jungle, he had learned to love the inky blackness of the night. He licked the blood on his razor-hands. A good kill today, the first of many to come. He had to do it. The had left him. Discarded him like he was nothing more than garbage. Therefore, they must die. The creature of darkness watched the man whom he had once fought with get into a jeep. "Fool," he thought. "I have you now. And soon, you and the people who left me, who abandoned me, will meet the sting of death. And then you will know true pain."  
He let out a scream of vengeance, and charged the jeep.  
  
Four hours later, Ash Ketchum stared silently as the news was updated to him on his computer. A friend of Penn, a Commander James McGreevey, had been killed by whatever it was that killed Penn. He gulped, and had to turn away to stop himself from vomiting. Another brutal murder at the hands of a Pokemon. His video-phone started ringing in that annoying Pidgey voice, interrupting his thoughts. He picked it up. "Ketchum," he said drearily. "Ash?" The smooth, melodic voice of his wife came back to comfort him. She saw the dazed looked on his face. "Honey, are you all right? What's wrong?"  
  
"Y-yes, dear. It's just that. . .there was another murder last night. The one I sent Trent on. An entire military squad was killed, their entire bodies just. . .slashed open." His wife covered her mouth and gasped. "Will Mr. Williams be all right?" Ash smiled. "Let's just say that he doesn't let much get to him these days." "I don't understand." He sighed. "Well, Trent prefers to keep this a secret. . .but when he was eighteen, he also wanted to become a Pokemon Master. He went around Kanto, and somewhere along the line he met a girl, and they fell in love and said that when they'd get to the Indigo Plateau, they'd beat the conference and the Elite Four and become certified Pokemon Masters. . .and then get married."  
Ash then looked away from his wife. "It never happened. She died the day he got his Earth Badge. She was hit by a drunk driver in Viridian City."  
His wife's beautiful complexion became gray. "Oh, that's awful! Poor Trent."  
Ash sighed again, more deeply this time. "Trent was really devastated. He gave up on his dream. He won't battle anymore. He nearly flunked out of college. Everyone said he had the potential to be a great Master, that he should focus on training and not studying. But he rejected the idea. He said it only reminded him of his fiancee.  
"He's only half the man he used to be, honey. He smokes, he drinks, and he doesn't consider Pokemon to be friends. He just can't love anyone anymore. He just works for me because it helps him get the rage out. Tracking down criminals and murderers is his way of making up for what he could have been."  
His wife stared back at him sadly. "That poor man. . .I didn't know."  
"Nobody does, really. But it's just as well. Sometimes you need a dark attitude to catch a dark criminal."  
  
AZURE MILITARY BASE, NOVEMBER 17TH , 6:58 PM  
  
Trent puffed idly on his cigarette, hands deep in his trench-coat, observing the slaughter before him. Five men. Three Pokemon. Killed instantly. There was no sign of a struggle. Whoever did this had managed to ambush eight members of one of the best military unit in the continent.  
  
It did not make sense.  
  
This fellow was James McGreevey, one of the allies of poor Penn, who had been murdered by the same Pokemon earlier. Someone had a grudge against the 181st battalion. The other members had to be protected.  
Trent was about to turn away to tell him to boost security, when a glint in on the men's wounds caught his eyes. Donning a pair of latex gloves, he pulled the strange object from the man's chest wound.  
It was transparent, paper thin, and covered in what seemed like scales. It was a wing. Trent's mind raced furiously, and the answer came as if a light switch had been flipped on in his head. He took out his Pokedex.  
  
"Analyze," he commanded.  
The Pokedex chimed and scanned the wing. After four minutes, the data came back. It replied in a deep mechanical voice:  
"Pokemon entry found. Fragment DNA scan complete. Analysis: Scyther."  
The image of a green mantis-like creature filled his screen. Those blades. . .the perfect murder weapon. Trent closed the Pokedex. The gears in his head began moving. A Scyther. Whose? Why?  
No time for questions he didn't have the answer to. Time for a decision. He took out his cell phone and dialed up the commander's office. "Commander Piett, sir?"  
"Yes, this is him."  
"Sir," said Trent, continuing to examine the Scyther wing, "I have a lead. But I need information. Has anyone in the 181st battalion ever had a Scyther?"  
Piett made no response. Was the line dead? "Sir.Commander Piett?"  
"Ur. . .no, young man," came the shaky reply. "My, uh, men have never had a Scyther in the 181st."  
"Have there ever been reports of death by Scyther during the war?"  
"No, Mr. Williams. I, ur, I'm very busy so please hurry."  
Trent nodded. "Very well. I'll continue my investigation and update you on what I find. Don't worry, sir. I'll find him."  
  
Piett hung up the phone, his face pale and shaking.  
"He was dead," he murmured. "We saw him. It just couldn't be." His hand reached down into the bottom drawer of his desk. Some liquor ought to calm him down. He didn't stop at one glass. Or at two.  
When his shaking finally was subdued by his inebriated nerves some hours later, after his companions had gone to their quarters for the night and he was alone, he stumbled like a blind man to get to his own quarters. He kept wiping the alcohol off his chin and muttering constantly in one sentence "he's dead I know he's dead we saw him die it has to be true he cant come back the dead stay dead."  
He was about to exit his office. . .  
Then he heard it. Panic seized his heart. He turned around. "Who's there?" he stammered. The only movement was the moonlight glistening over his desk through his window. Piett gulped loudly and gripped his liquor bottle hard as a makeshift weapon.  
"Who-whoever's in here! You are in trespassing on military property! Exit the-" His stammer was cut off by a sudden bow to his neck. His throat was crushed, and he fell to the ground vomiting blood. His voice became a wheeze. He tried to yell for security, but his voice was gone. Spots danced in his vision as he lay crumpled on the floor.  
Then he was hoisted to his feet by his collar. And he stared into the eyes of the Pokemon who was no longer a Pokemon. The Scyther in front of him barred his teeth and let out a low growl.  
Piett managed to find his voice. He could feel the life flowing out of him and knew if he didn't act soon, he would die. And this Scyther, once his ally, who wanted to kill him, was his only hope. His vision began to fade.  
"I. . .I didn't know!" he whispered. "Don't kill me!"  
The Scyther licked his lips hungrily. Pure rage filled his eyes. A rage that cannot be sated, even by murder. The blind rage of a Pokemon who had been betrayed, and every day for three decades has been waiting this day.  
He struck.  
  
2:04 AM  
Another death in the 181st. Piett had been found two hours ago with the life slashed out of him. Trent felt like slapping himself across the face. He paced around Piett's office, studying the blood pattern, the vicious claw marks on the door, and the corpse being wheeled away. He could hear the anguished sobs of his widow in the hallway. He should have seen this coming. . .  
  
But he had learned long ago that it was foolish to mourn the past.  
  
"Until this matter is settled," he told the police, "I have been put in charge of taking the remaining members of the 181st battalion into a secure location." The surviving men of the 181st had been called together to discuss the murder wave going through them. Most were men over age sixty, some in wheelchairs, others hanging on to life my a thread, a thread that could break too easily.  
Trent regarded them. Not only heroes, but victims. Even in victory, they met defeat. He knew how they felt. Sort of.  
"Where will you be taking them?" the commissioner asked him.  
Trent puffed on his cigarette intensely as if the nicotine would soothe his nerves and anger, not bothering to even face the commissioner. "Dunsparce Ridge. It's a long way from here. We have a cabin in the forest there and we'll keep the veterans there until we find the perpetrator." Satisfied, the commissioner walked away to tell his superiors.  
  
But deep in his heart Trent knew. He could not fool himself. That Scyther had managed to ambush a military jeep, an armored car, and even got past the tightest military security in all of Kanto. Hell, the Scyther was probably watching him. Now. His stomach felt like it did a somersault. Trent gripped one of his Pokeballs uneasily. "Get ready boys," he murmured. "We got a long night ahead of us." He would need a lot of cigarettes tonight.  
  
From his perch in the trees, camouflaged among the green leaves that were slowly changing with the fall season, he watched. He watched the man in brown organize the traitors into a neat pack and load them into a van. He smiled. The man in brown reminded him of his clan leader back in the Safari Zone. A strong presence, ready to lead, and keeping the peace. He rubbed his blades together expectantly. Ah, a challenge. Much better than these pitiful fools that he was killing. Their blood was weak, but this man had strong blood. He could smell it. The man in brown would prove to be a formidable adversary indeed. He would taste blood again soon. That thought comforted him as he began to follow the van into the wilderness.  
  
11:19 PM  
  
Trent stared out the cabin window. He couldn't see beyond five feet. The moon above glowed a pure white. High above came the call of Pidgeotto and Zubat Behind them watching the TV silently, the remaining five men of the 181st sat pallid, white as a Persian's fur, looking out the window for any telltale signs of entry.  
Trent turned away from them. It would not help to see him worried as well. Somewhere out there a Scyther lurked. Working for someone, perhaps? Or working alone?  
He watched his Golbat flutter by the window, patrolling the area. Using his supersonic, Golbat could trace anyone coming within 20 feet of the cabin. Golbat would begin screeching if anyone came close.  
  
But this Scyther is no ordinary one. It evaded military scanners. What about Golbat? Best not to think about that. Trent paced the room and had a shot of brandy for what must have been the fifth time that night. Finally, in order to get something off his chest, he called one of the men to him. H ewas a balding, thin man, one of the more healthier of the group.  
"What's your name?" he asked.  
"Lt. James Gavin," the veteran replied.  
Trent gazed steadily into the man's eyes. "Lieutenant, I feel people have been hiding the truth from me. I hate conspiracies. I mean, really, really, really hate them. I don't like being put in the dark." Trent began talking through his teeth and his eyes turned into dark slashes.  
"So let's be reasonable, huh? You tell me what you know about Scyther?"  
Gavin's eyes grew large. "I-I'm sorry-I don't know-"  
"You," Trent growled, "are the fifth person who has acted like a five- year-old with stage fright in the school play every time I mention that damn Scyther." He grabbed the man's shoulder and squeezed it hard. "Now you tell me what's going on . . .before I get angry. Because you wouldn't like me when I'm angry."  
Gavin was livid, and he sputtered, "you can't speak this way to me! How dare you! I am a distinguished-"  
"I don't give a Rattta's ass who you are. This is my game and my rules. You lose, you die." Trent pressed his face up to Gavin's so their noses were a centimeter apart. "I can do things to you that will make you beg for that Scyther to rip your lungs out. Or your spleen. 'Cause that's what he'll do. He'll-"  
"Enough!" Gavin cried. "I-I'm sorry. The commander told me not to say anything." His voice became a whisper. "Please don't tell anyone I told you this. . .in the Vietnam War we had a Scyther in the 181st. Men always carried them around to hack through the jungles. They were fast enough to kill enemies."  
Gavin's eyes stared at the ground. He swallowed, then continued. "Our Scyther had been," he paused as if to find the right word, "modified."  
"How do you mean?"  
"We. . .altered its DNA structure. We put in Kecleon genes."  
"What for?"  
  
Then it hit Trent like a sack of bricks. Kecleon were camouflage Pokemon. And apparently, so was this super-Scyther-lab-rat. "A perfect weapon," said Gavin meekly. "If word ever got out to the press that we were doing this to Pokemon, we'd be arrested for sure. But we managed to smuggle it into the war and it did us some good. The 181st became the most feared weapon of the Viet Cong.  
  
"Then one day. . .we were ambushed. We ran and we ran. . .and we swear to God. . .Scyther was killed. We saw him get hit by a bullet and go down. So we left him. We had to!" Desperation flittered in Gavin's eyes. He looked at Trent with fear, more fear than any war could ever bring. "Why would he do this?" he whispered. "Why would our friends do this?"  
  
Trent wanted to reply that Pokemon were not friends, but stopped himself. He conjured up all he had learned about Scyther at Pokemon Tech. "It's because he felt betrayed. You left him to die. Scyther clans everywhere see abandonment as a high blasphemy. And when a Scyther abandons another Scyther, the clan decrees the punishment is death."  
  
Gavin looked at Trent as of he had grown an extra head. "Death? But it--"  
  
He never got any further.  
  
There was a hissing noise outside that stopped Trent's heart cold. Then the lights went out, and the cabin was plunged into pitch black darkness. His right hand clasped onto the first Pokeball he could find, and the left reached for his gun. Sweat dripped down his face, but he kept his cool. Behind him, he could hear Gavin murmur, "it's here."  
  
TO BE CONCLUDED. . . 


	3. When Darkness Falls

A/N: Well, here's the end of the Scyther story. I'll have a new adventure soon. And I could really use a lot of reviews. Let's me know how I'm doing.  
  
Because they must pay. Because they are traitors. They made him like this. They turned him into a shadow of what he had once been, and now he must roam with shadows. He could not make himself better. But revenge. Ah, sweet revenge. More tempting than anything else. Is there nothing greater than to rip out the hearts of the traitors? Make them feel the pain he did? Revenge was like a drug. He needed more and more of it; he was addicted. But now they had gathered traitors into one big pile! His eyes grew cold, yellow, feral. It was time. He had waited far too long. It was time. It was time. Much blood for him to feast.  
  
"He's cut the power generator!" cried one man. "He's gonna kill us!" "Shut up!" Trent snarled. He switched his flashlight on and scanned the cabin, trying to balance his Walther PPK and the flashlight at the same time. Nothing moved. No Scyther surprises. Trent kept his heart rate as low as he could. It would be foolish to panic.  
  
It would also be foolish to get his head lobbed off.  
  
"OK, boys," he said to them men behind him, "I need you to get to the back door and when I say so, you run to the van outside." Enraged voices murmured behind him, mostly along the lines of "we'll be killed!" They complied anyway, backing to the door that would lead to escape. . .or certain death. Trent kept his ears open. Scyther, he remembered, could be heard by the sound of their flitting wings. But no sound came within the dark cabin. Only the sound of the tree branches tapping lightly on the window came. Trent backed up to the door where the other men waited. He grabbed the van's keys on the table, gun still performing at 180-degree scan in front of him. "OK, guys," he whispered, "I'm gonna count to three. One. . .two. . ."  
  
It came in a blur. For a split second Trent could see a green blur with a monster's face zooming towards him. It hit him in the jaw and he fell, dropping the flashlight and gun. The men yelled in fear. Trent found himself on the floor, blood oozing from nose and mouth. Enraged at the affront, his head scanned the room fast, and found the men running as fast as their legs could carry them. Except for the one man with a Scyther's blade at his throat. The Scyther hissed furiously, a sound that sent chills up Trent's spine.  
  
He acted.  
  
Furiously, he launched himself across the room, grabbed Scyther, and slammed him into the wall. Vases and pictures shattered on the impact. Trent wrapped his arm around the Scyther's throat in a choke hold and held on for dear life. Scyther was incensed. Screaming aloud, the wings on its back trembled madly. They slapped Trent's body and he was forced to release. The Scyther turned around and pointed at Trent, then charged with his blade extended, ready to tear life and limb from the Pokemon Detective. Trent dove to the ground. The Scyther missed and kept going. . .straight into the opposite wall. Splinters flew everywhere. The blade was lodged in good. Trent saw is chance. He ran over to Scyther, who was yelling and trying to wedge out his stuck blade. He delivered a series of uppercuts right into the face. Stunned, the Pokemon shrieked and finally released the blade. . .and sent Trent sprawling with a kick to the chin. Trent lay on his back on the floor, seeing the distorted creature rear up and scream. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw his gun. He grabbed it and fired two shots into Scyther's chest. Scyther flew back into the wall, clutching his chest. Then he got back up. After taking two bullets.  
  
Sheer panic gripped Trent by the stomach. The Scyther, obviously more angry than hurt, stumbled over to where Trent lay. It hissed again, causing flecks of hot spittle to sprinkle on Trent's face. Bullets did not work. Fistfights did not work. There was just one last solution. Trent wiped the blood off his lips and smiled. "Now you've made me mad, Scyther, old buddy." The Scyther tilted its head curiously as if the say "what the hell are you talking about?" And Trent hurled to the Pokeball into Scyther's face. It fell to the floor and split open, lighting up the cabin. The light took on a form, and the form slowly became visible. His silver wings glowed in the moonlight. It was beautiful. It was a nightmare. Scyther paused to analyze the threat, then smiled. It would no match. He swung a blade at the new Pokemon and snarled something. Skarmory yelled back.  
  
And they charged.  
  
Scyther knew the best way to kill a Skarmory was to get the neck, where it was the weakest. The joint where the wing met the shoulder was also good for bloodshed. He slashed several times, but Skarmory blocked each one with by putting its metal wings over the weak spots, each impact making a metal clang like banging two pots against each other. Then it grabbed Scyther's claw with its talons and spun it like a top. Scyther was caught completely off guard and attempted to free himself. Skarmory let go, and Scyther skidded across the room into a table. It shattered, making a pile of lumber. And one angry Scyther.  
  
Trent managed to stagger his way to the door where the other men were already footing it to the van. He winced slightly as his rib ached. Must be broken. Blood crusted his left eye, and his lip was swollen. He watched Scyther get up from the wreckage, and leap, vaulting off the ceiling and slamming his feet into Skarmory's chest. Skarmory cried out and fell to the ground, dazed but not beaten. It spread its wings gracefully. Tiny little points of light danced on his chest, forming unique star-shaped objects. Then they flew out at one hundred miles per hour and struck Scyther. There were hundreds, thousands, millions of them, no bigger than the size of Trent's thumb. Swift attack. Scyther stumbled back from the barrage, then fell to the ground, wounded. "Go! GO!" Trent yelled. "NOW!" Skarmory returned to his Pokeball and he flew like a Rapidash to the van. Trent quickly opened the door, slammed it, and put the keys in the ignition. His fingers rattled, but he managed to get the keys in. The engine roared to life, and the van started. "GO! GO!" the men behind him yelled. Trent's hand put the car into drive, his foot slammed on the accelerator, and with a squeal of the tires they were off. Safe. . .  
  
Then Scyther's form landed on the hood and sheared through the windshield like it was paper. Blood and dirt encrusted his body. Its blade slashed wildly, cutting into the upholstery and barely missing Trent in the driver's seat. Trent quickly dove for cover. Scyther howled for blood, or vengeance, and hooked his foot right into Trent's neck. Trent gasped for air, then found his eyes a millimeter from Scyther's blade. The Scyther gave a smile that was all teeth. He did it. He had won. He had him. Trent's eyes closed, ready to feel the Scyther drain the blood from his jugular. . .  
  
. . .and Golbat came out of the sky and sank his teeth into Scyther's flank. Scyther, with a shout, attempted to dismember Golbat. But the Bat Pokemon flew into the night sky, then bolted back to slap Scyther with a Wing Attack. Golbat came from every direction. The Scyther was pounded from every which way. First Golbat was attacking from the right. . .no! From the top! No! The left! He was everywhere! Scyther, fed up with this nuisance, spun around in a Swords Dance. He became a sadistic green tornado. Golbat withdrew into the sky to avoid the spinning monstrosity and waited. Scyther promptly leapt into the sky and went after Golbat, ready to savor his blood. His blade extended into the air, to hack Golbat's wings off. When he was merely three feet away, Golbat gave a Screech. A very loud one. It shrieked all the way through the forest, so earsplitting it began shattering the remaining windows of the van and the cabin. Scyther lost control of his senses and tumbled to the ground. He landed in a column of dust, twitched, and did not move.  
  
Trent hobbled out of the van, dabbing with a tissue at his bloody nose. Golbat, weary from the battle, perched on his shoulder and made a quiet screeching noise at him. "I'm fine, just a little beat up," Trent assured his Pokemon. Golbat's reply had more than a hint of sarcasm in it. Trent smiled. "I suggest," he said, "that you tend to your own wounds." They observed the Scyther, now half-dead, on the ground in front of them. His breathing was labored. He seemed comatose. Trent spoke into his cell- phone. "This is Williams, my badge number is 24601742. I have the suspect, injured, at Dunsparce Ridge. I request immediate backup for apprehension. Bring a Growlithe squad, I don't want any slip ups." "Roger that," came the Cerulean Police's reply, "we'll be there in a few minutes." Trent closed the cell phone and let out a sigh. Golbat, still on his shoulder like a parrot, sighed as well. That was that. He'd. . .  
  
Scyther struck. Its left blade single-handedly punched Golbat off his perch and sent him sprawling. The other blade, like a fist, hit Trent in the sternum and he flew into a tree trunk. He heard his shoulder snap and blinding agony shot up his spine into his brain. He resisted the urge to cry out. Trent's useless hand dove for his gun. Scyther, bloody, scared, and infuriated, came back, and hauled Trent up. The blade lifted high into the sky. Scyther let out a screech of triumph. In a single millisecond, Trent remembered that this was the call a Scyther gave out before it killed an animal for a meal. He couldn't resist, and remembered how he'd failed as a Pokemon trainer. Now he'd botched as a Pokemon Detective.  
  
At least this time he wouldn't have to live with his failure.  
  
He saw the white light of heaven coming towards him as he died. Pure, immaculate light; the light that signals an end to all life and the transcendence of the soul. Trent basked in the glow of the light . . .which got more intense.  
  
Wait a minute, he thought. Those are headlights.  
  
Scyther didn't see the van coming. Until it was too late. He saw the headlights, turned around, and was crushed by the van plowing into his body at 50 miles per hour. Gavin, in the driver's seat, felt no remorse as he did it. He watched the Scyther's blood splatter on the fractured residue of the windshield and the hood. He watched what had once been Scyther's arm go one way, the chest go another, and the blood went in all places. Trent stared into the headlights, bewildered. Then his vision blackened. As he saw the Cerulean Police arrive, he collapsed to the ground and did not get up.  
  
When he woke up, he found himself staring at the pink ceiling. A light glared into his eyes intensely and he shut them. He licked his dry lips, still caked with a bit of blood. He eventually made his arms move and he sat up. Ah, that made sense. It was a hospital. Then he remembered. That's right, he thought. A Scyther kicked the crap out of me.  
  
Every atom on his body ached. He managed to grab the glass of water on the tray nearby and slugged it down eagerly, so fast that his stomach nearly vomited it back up. His eye was still swollen, but the other was fine. He watched as a nurse with her Blissey walked in. He managed to moan out a few syllables. "Where am I?" The nurse looked him over. "Cerulean Hospital. Sit back down! You need your rest." "Scyther?" he croaked. The nurse's look became melancholy. "It was run over. He died." "Ah," Trent nodded. Now he remembered. Then he remembered something else. "Gol-" he murmured, then found his voice gone. He sat back into the soft cushion of the bed, cleared his throat, and began again. "Golbah?" He couldn't even move his lips to make a "t" noise. The nurse looked confused. "Hmm? Oh, Golbat! Oh, he's fine. He broke a wing, but with a few days rest he'll be as good as new." Trent nodded, then closed his eyes and breathed deep. Over. Done. Now for some sleep.  
  
NINE DAYS LATER  
  
Trent put his hands up to the faint scar on his lips. He hoped no one would notice. He wasn't concerned about his appearance, but he hated people prodding him for questions. Once again, Indigo Coliseum was packed. A little girl with a Yanma passed him; he took notice of a Torchic, amazed since you didn't see those every day, not around Kanto; and he narrowly avoided a spinning Hitmontop. He just had to smile. These little kids, some not even ten years old, were definitely going places.  
  
He unlocked the door to his office, only to find Mr. Ketchum sitting in front of his desk, his fingers steepled in front of him. Trent straightened and stared in confusion. "Sir?" "Trent, I heard. Good job. I'm very, very proud of you." Trent nodded. "Thank you." Ketchum then looked him over. He noticed the scar on his lip, and his hand was bandaged. "You look. . .awful." Trent leaned against the wall. "Like a Tauros ran over me. No--a herd of them." Ketchum nodded, then smiled. "Trent, I'll be blunt. You need a vacation after that."  
  
Trent shook his head waved the suggestion aside. "I don't take vacations. I like my work." "Trent, honestly! You're all beaten up! You need some rest!" Then Ketchum reached into his pocket, and pulled out a ticket. "It's for a private booth in the Coliseum. Go watch the battles." "Sorry, sir, but I have to refuse. You need a report on the Scyther, and I have to write it." Ketchum sighed, and rose. "Trent, don't push yourself too hard. I don't like it." Trent smiled barely. "Sir, I think the tournament is about to start. You'd better get out there." Ash's expression fell, and with a sigh he left the office.  
  
Trent closed the door behind him and sat as his desk. Putting a stick of gum into his mouth, he turned on his computer. Out the window, the Coliseum glowed with the fireworks that were beginning, signaling the beginning of the competition.  
  
Trent's eyes stared at the picture on his desk.  
  
He sighed, and began typing the report. 


	4. Dark Tide Part 1 of 2

Ok, loyal readers, after a brief lapse due to midterms, I have the next story. . .so please review. Thanks!  
  
They said that if you ever wanted to go to a place where you could swim in crystal clear lakes, look no further than Vermilion. The seaside city was a paradise, every day the St. Anne would come in, sailing majestically through the ocean waves. Little children loved Vermilion beach, which stretched for miles. Golden sand, a clam blue sea, it was the perfect getaway. Today, a pack of college students hollered like a siren as they ran onto the beach, surfboards in hand, to seize the day. They swam and surfed, enjoying the hot sun.  
  
One kid decided it was time to impress the ladies by showing how he could swim "faster than a Dewgong!" as he put it. And indeed he was, for he sped through the waves and reached the buoy in no time flat. He held onto the buoy and waved happily, feeling great triumph for his own success. Then he screamed, a scream so intense that it echoed down the beach for miles. The students stared in awe as the kid out on the boy hollered with pain, then went under the water, hands flailing. By now other people had come over to see what was the matter. One of his friends immediately dove into the water to rescue him. . .and was flung onto the shore as a huge jet of water pummeled him in the stomach from out of nowhere. He fell to the sand and clutched his chest, moaning and panting.  
  
And then they came like an army. Chinchou. Hundreds of them. Each wearing a frown. One of them carried the comatose body of the swimmer. The Chinchou dumped him on the shore, then bellowed. The Chinchou raised their fins, and jets of water spewed from their mouths. They tacked people to the ground and bit them savagely. Screaming people ran for their cars, but some where zapped by the Chinchou's spark attack. One group of Chinchou managed to break down the lifeguard station, demolishing it into a pile of wood. The lifeguard's Poliwrath was overwhelmed by the group and quickly retreated. The Chinchou kept coming out relentlessly, their antennae glowing with electricity.  
  
Some of the men tried punching them and kicking them, but for everyone they hit another hundred took their place. They were shocked into unconsciousness. And they still kept coming out of the sea. The Chinchou proceeded to the parking lot. There, they cracked open windows by ramming them. Children's screams echoed throughout the whole area. One car exploded when the Chinchou overheated the motor with its Spark Attack.. Some were turned over. It seemed impossible, but there was strength in numbers.  
  
A man charged the Pokemon angrily for wrecking his new convertible. Using a stick as a crude weapon, he began swiping at them. Some of them were caught unaware and were hurled by the enraged man. The Chinchou, with black fury rising in their hearts, all fired a Spark at point-blank range. 100,000 volts sent the man flying 20 feet into air, his skin torched to a crisp. He was dead even before he hit the ground.  
  
In one hour, the entire beach was full of angry Chinchou. And they would not leave. Their leader roared in triumph.  
  
Five miles away, a bunch of Mantine attacked a seaside resort. The St. Anne was nearly sunk when a Cloyster pack leapt onboard and began attacking people. And at a beach house near Vermilion, a Seadra clan forced the house's owner to flee when they invaded. It was an all out Pokemon Water rebellion around Vermilion.  
  
INDIGO OFFICES, Wednesday, 12:30 PM  
  
Trent sat in his office, chewing hard on his pastrami sandwich. Lunch break, where he could finally get some rest. He wiped the mayonnaise from his chin and turned the volume up on the TV. The quarterly battle championship was going on, and right now on the Grass Field an adolescent male with a Lickitung was battling an adult female with a Raticate. The latter was darting around the field nimbly on his webbed feet. It crouched among the tall grass, then leapt out and Skull-Bashed Lickitung with the sound like a firecracker going off. Lickitung was startled, but not defeated. It began to spin around, its tongue whirling around a two-feet radius. The Raticate could not get out of the way in time. It cracked like a whip on his flank, and Raticate fell to the ground, the right side of his body paralyzed.  
The referee counted to ten, and Raticate did not get up. Lickitung won, and the two Pokemon were returned. The young man and the woman observed this steadily, and then left the stadium. A good trainer never revels in victory, Trent thought, and they don't whine in defeat. He respected their attitude to the outcome. He changed the channel. . . . . .and nearly fell off his chair in surprise. A helicopter was taking live footage of Vermilion Beach, where a bunch of blue and yellow blobs with golden auras around them. Trent squinted. Ah, they were Chinchou. What on Earth were they doing? The reporter announced: ". . .began two hours ago. Three people have been hospitalized, and they have done over thousands of dollars in damage. They will not speak, and shock anyone who comes within yards of them." The scene then showed the St. Anne being attacked by Cloyster, a private resort under the control of some nasty-looking Seadra and Lotad, and a harbor near Vermilion that was overwhelmed with Golduck. All of them had the look of hatred in their eyes. He watched with distaste as some so-called "trainers" tried to fend them off using Electric and Grass Pokemon. Idiots, thought Trent. There's more to Water Pokemon than spitting, well, water. It was almost amusing to see the Pikachus, Treekos, and Flaafys get overwhelmed thinking they could win by type advantage alone. Almost. He turned off the TV and prepared to get back to work. He had to write a field report on his findings of an Omanyte deposit, when the intercom buzzed. He pressed the button and replied with his usual half-hearted "yes?" "Trent, I need to see you." Trent held back a curse. The boss. He took a last sip of coffee before heading out the door.  
  
Inside the office of the famed Pokemon master, Trent saw Mr. Ketchum arguing madly with someone on the phone. He sat at the door and waited for the conversation to finish. He noticed the picture hanging on the wall behind Ash. There was his lovely wife, Misty; their two children held an Oddish and a Bellsprout in their hands. There was Gary Oak, grandson and heir to the legendary Oak estate. Brock, former gym leader, was also seen with his wife and children. And a variety of Ash's friends whom he had accumulated on his journey to this place. Trent used to curse every time he saw such a sight. It only reminded him of. . .her. They could have had children. And many friends. Like Ash here. Ash finally stopped arguing. "Trent," he said, obviously flustered with sweat dripping down his forehead, "I need to talk to Mr. Davis here."  
  
Trent went up to the videophone and saw a middle-aged balding man in a white polyester suit frantically waving himself with a fan. He spoke in a thick Cajun accent. "I do declare," he moaned as he popped a chicken nugget into his mouth, "they done come over here and they taken over my swampland!" Trent grit his teeth. "Calm down, sir," he seethed. "I need you to slow, down, now." Davis wiped the sweat from his brow and continued. "Mr. Williams, you just got to help me! They done taken over my backyard! They chased away all my guests and they ruined my patio! They had-" "Shut up." "Uh, yessir." Trent felt like a little man with a jackhammer was pounding into his brain. "Who did it?" he managed to grit out. "The Lanturn! They is everywhere!" Lanturn? Trent thought. "Sir. . .do you live at Vermilion Swamp?" "Yes! Yes! I heard you'se the best when you come on down and exterminate them rodents! I pay you well, I do! See here!" He held a huge sum of paper bills in front of him and flipped through them as if to tempt him. Trent became glued to the videophone. That money could get him that plasma TV he'd always wanted. He tried to stop from licking his lips. But then he remembered the pathetic attempts to stop the other Vermilion attackers. "Sir, I may have to decline. There are too many of them, and I only have twelve at most."  
  
"Now you listen, here, boy! You wants this here money, you come on down to my bayou and you get rid o'these here Lanturn!" "I don't do extermination jobs, I-" His boss interrupted. "Trent, there are alternatives to fighting." Trent squeezed his fists so hard his fingernails dug into his palms and began to draw blood. He hated every time someone gave him the little speech about fighting. But perhaps Ash was right here, that there was a way to get into these Lanturn's minds. . .he recalled his Psychology classes at Pokemon Tech. . . His mind clicked like a light switch. He snapped his fingers. "Mr. Davis, you have my full support. I can be at the airport in. . ." he checked his watch. . ."three hours. Does that suit you?" "Yes, yes! Oh, praises, thank you! I'll be a-waiting you at Vermilion Airport! Three hours now! Don't you be late!" The videophone went black. Trent would have kicked the damn machine if it weren't his boss'.  
"And what exactly do you have in mind?" Ash asked.  
Trent turned around, stared at his boss, his lips a thin slash. "That would spoil the surprise, now, wouldn't it?"  
  
VERMILLION AIRPORT 4:02 PM  
A moment ago, Trent's plane had passed over the Vermilion beach and he had seen the angry Chinchou. Local authorities had blockaded the beach, and people were trying to get a glimpse of the carnage. As an ambulance wheeled off to carry the injured away. The cadaver of the poor convertible owner was put on a gurney and sent to the morgue. Crying children were asked my the police what had happened. And trainers could only stare in awe as they prepared to exterminate the Chinchou, only to find strength in numbers blew them away.  
Trent certainly hoped the odds were with him today as he got off the plane and looked around. He saw Mr. Davis waving his hands frantically, saying "yoo-hoo! Over here, boy!" The entire crowd stared at him, then at Trent. Trent buried his face in his hands and jogged over the fat man.  
"Oh, Trent, I am so-"  
"Will you shut the hell up?!" Trent whispered through clenched teeth, flecks of spittle jetting out from between them. Davis stopped immediately. Trent continued. "A Pokemon Investigator works incognito-always. Do you understand?"  
Davis stared as if Trent had grown an extra head. "I reckon I do, sir."  
  
"Good. I am glad we understand each other." Trent felt the blazing hot anger subside and drift down his gut through his legs and into his toes. He really had to watch his temper, it would get him killed someday. "Take me to your home. And my name is Ray for now."  
"As you wish Tr-uh, Ray." He pointed the way to his limousine. "After you."  
  
The ride took a few hours. Vermilion swamp is adjacent to Vermilion City. Like the Mississippi Delta, it flows out into the ocean, where Vermilion city is. A huge festering swamp stretches for miles here. Most people built houses here in the quiet realm of the swamp. There were no cities, no distractions, no noises. There was peace.  
Trent observed the houses built around the time of the Civil War, painted blue and white with rotting wood. The sun was concealed by a thick swarm of trees above, and the temperature made him long for a cool drink. He could hear the call of swamp Pokemon in the distance. Slowpoke, Venonat, Yanma, Nincada, pretty much anything that was lazy or made a lot of noise of flapping wings. They finally pulled up to one of the rustic houses. The family was very well-to-do. On the front porch, two children no more than 10 years old reclined and talked. A Meowth lay curled up below them. They all greeted Mr. Davis as soon as he got out.  
"Daddy!" the children screamed, followed by their Meowth. They hugged their father's corpulent legs. "Ah, my children, Roy!" he proclaimed. "They'se gonna be trainers like you some day!" Trent felt like bursting out at the very mentioning that he was a trainer, a dream he had given up on long ago, but kept his composure. It would not do to be seen losing his temper.  
"Daddy," said the little boy, "is this man gonna fix them dang ol' nasty Lanturn out in the backyard?"  
"Son, this here is the best man that all o' Kanto ever did see! I guarantee we'll be back in the yard in no time!"  
Trent was led around the house into the backyard. The grass was thick and wet, and made squishing noises as he stomped on it. The sweet smell of foliage and soil enriched his nostrils, sending soothing messages into his brain. He still ached for that drink. When he turned the corner and opened the gate, he nearly did a double-take.  
The backyard was a grassy plain that stretched for about 30 yards before coming to a river, the river that flowed into the ocean and became part of the Vermilion City coastline. There was a swimming pool, a gymnasium for the children, a hot tub, a speed boat, and pavilion. And Lanturn. Lots and lots of angry-looking Lanturn.  
"Well," said Mr. Davis, "just look at 'em! Nasty little critters! Lying around on my property! Just sitting their! I tried to get my own Pokemon to get these guys out, but man alive, they'se can shock!"  
Trent frowned. Battling would not work, of course. There was another way. He grabbed two of his Pokeballs and walked briskly away from the backyard and down the street,  
Davis, fat jiggling almost rhythmically, ran to catch up with him. "See here now! Why are you running away?"  
"I don't run away," Trent replied gravelly, wiping his brow from the intense heat. "I need to find a secure spot on the river."  
"For what?"  
"So I can release my friends here. They're my double-agents."  
"What on Earth are you talking about boy? This is--"  
Trent put his index finger on his lips, a polite way of telling him to shut the hell up. Davis did so. Trent continued his brisk pace, leaving a struggling Davis lagging behind until he came to a spot by the river that was not infested with Lanturn. In the background, he could hear the buzzing of flies and watched a Taillow flutter through the trees. Magikarp floated through the bayou, in search of food.  
The Lanturn were nowhere in sight. He pressed the buttons on the Pokeballs and the split open. Two white shafts of light appeared and formed shapes. One became his Tentacruel, the other was a red blob of a Pokemon, with eight suction-cupped arms to bind its enemies into defeat. Octillery.  
Trent regarded the two Pokemon as they slithered into the water. He explained his plan. The two nodded, then dove underwater. By now, Davis had come up to him, panting. "Wh-what was that all about? Boy, you told me you'se was gonna take care of them Lanturn."  
"It will be handled," Trent said confidently, pulling out a cigarette. "You know, I am thirsty."  
"I-I can have my wife get you some drinks, if you'd like that?" Davis asked.  
"I'd like that," Trent said, and headed back to the Davis house. It was up to Tentacruel and Octillery now. 


End file.
